


Tempting

by Leela



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Club!sex, Community: bbtp_challenge, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrice-damned bloody Potter, who doesn't have the decency to keep his blood inside his veins where it isn't anywhere near as tempting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempting

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta** : eeyore9990
> 
>  **A/N** : Written for [bbtp_challenge](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/bbtp_challenge/) 2011.

Draco's teeth ache. He licks his lips, catches his tongue on his fangs, and hisses at the taste of his own blood.

 _Wrong_.

The word reverberates inside his skull as it has every time he's fed in the days since he last saw Potter. Thrice-damned bloody Potter, who doesn't have the decency to keep his blood inside his veins where it isn't anywhere near as tempting.

The memory of Potter skating his fingertips over the guitar strings, cutting himself open, bleeding on stage turns Draco's hiss into a low growl. The bloke in leather standing next to him wraps his arm around his younger companion and sidles away. The young one resists, though, and gives Draco a considering, lascivious gaze. He's tempting enough that Draco walks away from the bar and into the crowd.

Into a melee of sweat and cologne, the sour odours of poppers and potions, the sweetness of heroin, and the coppery tang of blood that's still surging with life.

"You left."

Potter's accusation is pitched low enough that Draco knows it can only be intended for him. There are no other vampires in the room. He pivots slowly, trying to identify where it came from, and eventually locates Potter in the shadows by the staircase.

The closer he gets, the more muffled the sound around Draco becomes until it's a low buzz, and he's unable to distinguish the voices from the music, the thump of the bass from the thud of bodies against walls and furniture. He stops a couple of feet from Potter and waits.

Potter sticks his hands in the front pockets of his worn jeans, drawing Draco's attention to the white-blue denim of the placket and the soft bulge beneath it. "Is that it then?"

Dragging his eyes back up to meet Potter's, wishing for once that the git had kept those ugly, distracting glasses, Draco pretends he has no idea what Potter is talking about. "Is what it?"

But Potter's still a bloody Gryffindor, and he doesn't even pretend to play the game. Instead, he does what he's always done. He moves towards Draco, close enough that Draco's senses are swamped by the sight and the smell of him.

"I know what you are," says Potter. "I've always known what you are. From that very first day at Madam Malkin's." And then Potter's mouth is a breath away, his upper body leaning towards Draco at a perilous angle.

"I'm not," Draco says, barely able to think past the taste of Potter on his lips.

"Yes," insists Potter.

The conversation makes less sense than the slow thump-thump of Potter's heart. That rhythm's hypnotic and nothing like the usual fluttering race of his prey's pulse. Unable to stop himself, Draco strokes his fingertips over the vein that runs up the side of Potter's neck.

Strange to have a mortal be so near and so calm. To feel life move beneath the thin, soft skin and have Potter tilt his head and give Draco better access.

"No," Draco reminds himself and steps back. "You can't want—"

Every word in Draco's vast vocabulary is lost in the bite of Potter's teeth into Potter's lip, the breaking of skin, the scent, the taste, the _call_ of Potter's blood.

"You," he finally manages to say.

"Me," Potter says, and then he kisses Draco.

His tongue pushes between Draco's lips, and his blood fills Draco's mouth. The world turns red around the edges, and it empties of everyone except Draco and Potter.

Draco licks and sucks on Potter's tongue and lower lip. He's inundated with sweet and sharp, with flashes of magic and power, and it's nowhere near enough. He crowds closer and closer to Potter, pushing him under the stairs, pressing him against the wall.

The sounds Potter makes — Draco inhales every one of them. Moans and whimpers, the groan that rumbles through Potter's chest when Draco traps Potter's hands above his head and pins Potter against the wall. Then Potter thrusts his hips into Draco, and Draco's the one who's lost.

Lost to Potter's blood, to Potter's magic, to Potter's desire. To the absolute Slytherin greenness of Potter's eyes.

"Mine," Potter says, and Draco isn't sure if he's hearing the word with his ears or tasting it in the blood that still seeps into his mouth.

 

It doesn't matter. Draco is long past being able to resist. He laps at Potter's lip, sealing the skin, and then drags his mouth downwards, grazing the sharp edges of his fangs against the line of Potter's jaw.

"Yes." Potter writhes until his erection is digging into Draco's hip, and then grinds against him. A rock and a slide, repeated again and again in the same rhythm as the beat of Potter's heart, and Draco knows that can't be a coincidence. It can't be anything but an invitation.

Draco places his mouth over the vein and feels the pulse speed up. He sucks, raises a bruise that teases his fangs, his hunger, and Potter curls his left leg around Draco's right.

They pause. Long enough for Draco to cup his free hand beneath Potter's arse, and for Potter to hop up and wrap his legs around Draco. All without Draco releasing Potter's hands.

And then they're moving again. Draco's squeezing and rubbing his fingers against Potter's cleft. Potter's fucking _undulating_ against Draco's prick. Draco holds out as long as he can, until the need to drink, to fill and be filled with Potter is all he knows, before he parts his lips and slowly, oh so slowly, sinks his teeth into Potter's jugular.

It's everything. Life and death, love and hate. Draco claims Potter, and he's claimed by him. There's nothing else, no one else, except Potter and his heat and music and magic.

And for the first time, Draco doesn't fight it.


End file.
